Page 9 of Desperately Seeking Seduction

He found water had been left in a jug beside the basin and threw some over his face. As he was drying his skin, he happened to see a pair of dainty feet low on the floor of his adjoining dressing room.

His breath caught. There was no reason for any woman to be in his chambers, lest they were bent on seducing him. The only women here were servants or relations. He took a few cautious steps in that direction, gut churning in dread at the inevitable scene that would accompany throwing out a misguided cousin so desperate for marriage that she’d come to him for the role of husband. “Who’s there? Come out now!”

All he heard for an answer was a soft snore.

Although that sounded completely harmless, he figured the woman was desperate enough to have waited all this time had fallen asleep. He snatched up a candlestick to take a closer look and crept to the doorway. If they stayed sleeping, he could easily sneak away and perhaps spend the night in the library, thus avoiding any awkward waking and conversation.

Once at the door, he cautiously poked his head inside the space—only to recognize his replacement valet, lying under blankets on the hardwood floor, one foot sticking out toward him. “What the devil?”

Dane Winston did not so much as twitch.

Stratford considered kicking the fellow awake and sending him off to his own room, until he noticed the fellow had his travel trunk beside the makeshift bed, too. It occurred to him that with so many of the family staying at the palace, bedchambers must be scarce. Every guest would have brought servants, and he assumed there were not enough beds to go around. Cuthbert had enjoyed his own little chamber on the floor above and would never have agreed to be displaced. Winston, however, so young and fresh to his service, must not have asserted his authority and kept that room for himself.

A valet of Stratford’s should have kept his own chamber, no matter which body was fulfilling that role.

Winston should not be denied the right to use his old valet’s bedchamber. He would have to give Winston a severe talking to in the morning about standing up for himself. It wasn’t Stratford’s place to interfere with the pecking order below stairs, and yet he felt unusually protective toward young Dane Winston.

Stratford raised the candlestick high and studied the sleeping fellow.

Man? Or boy?

By candlelight, he looked even younger…and oddly appealing.

Stratford drew back a little, startled by that errant thought. He liked women, not men. Always. But as he peeked at the sleeping form again, it was hard to believe the valet’s claim to be a man of four and twenty years. He peered closely at his jaw. Hardly a hint of beard about him, even at this late hour of the night.

He scratched his own jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble under his fingertips. By Stratford’s estimation, Winston had to be closer to sixteen rather than the four and twenty years he professed to be.

Perhaps, if he were that young, it was better the fellow remained sleeping in Stratford’s closet. The other servants could be mean at times to newcomers, and someone so young could be bullied about unfairly. The butler had little to no patience for complaints or unruliness from the servants of Ravenswood Palace, too.

It would not do for anyone to be confused about Winston’s gender or inclinations, either.

Stratford decided the lad could remain sleeping in his closet, at least until he got his bearings. He was far too young to defend himself well against larger servants if such measures were ever required.

Winston snored again, and Stratford chuckled softly under his breath as he pulled the door shut. He had employed a tiny hippopotamus to be his valet. It was almost adorable.

CHAPTER 4

“If you could remain still, my lord,” Winston begged as she tried unsuccessfully to put an evening slipper on Lord Stratford’s left foot, despite his lack of cooperation for the task. To make herself heard, she slapped her hand to the floor. Hard. “Please.”

The foot finally stopped moving long enough for her to attach a shoe to the man, and she heaved a heavy sigh for that small success.

Winston settled back on her heels a moment and looked up sourly. Lord Stratford had been painting since he’d risen that morning, and nothing and no one could seem to divert his attention from his artistic pursuit. Not food, not even being forcibly dressed for an important family gathering.

Six hours standing before the easel, either painting or staring at an empty red dress strewn across his large bed. He was expected downstairs at any moment and was nowhere near ready. She wasn’t sure she was paid well enough for the frustration he was causing her today.

Winston was beyond exasperated. Earlier in the day, Lord Stratford had lectured her about asserting herself among the servants, and ensuring she was treated with the respect due her position. But Winston knew too well that respect was earned, not granted immediately. She’d agreed to sleep in the dressing closet to get on the butler’s good side from the very beginning. That was absolutely vital.

She had rested well upon that floor, never even hearing Lord Stratford’s return. She pursed her lips as she studied the half-dressed lord now. Sitting him down to be shaved had been a nightmare because he kept turning his head to look at his painting and she feared she’d end up cutting his throat. To get the job done properly, she’d had to turn him and the painting to face each other in the end.

“It’s no good,” he muttered, tossing his paint brush aside with a groan of distress. “No good at all.”

Winston stood quickly and risked a peek at the portrait before her current master. If anything, the painting seemed to have lost the glimmer of life it had possessed before he’d started that day. He was painting from memory alone, and it seemed it was failing him badly. “It’s not as bad as all that,” she lied carefully.

“What would you know of art?”

“Nothing, of course, my lord.” Winston knew a great deal about art, but she’d always intended to hide it from him. She had no skill herself. Despite that, Winston had been fascinated by the paintings of her ancestors that had graced her childhood home, and in other places she’d visited over the years. She had studied each one, especially the men in order to copy them. Their arrogance and dignity her best source of inspiration for how to act around others. She hoped for a chance to view the paintings in Ravenswood’s long gallery while she was here, too. “It’s almost time.”

“Yes, time to dance a merry dance with the family yet again,” he grumbled, wiping his fingers on a cloth already smeared with color. “I’d rather stay here where its peaceful and paint.”